


Bedside Manner

by mcicioni



Category: The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Genre: Gen, Light-weight fluff.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Vin has influenza. Chris deals with it.
Relationships: Chris Adams/Vin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9





	Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Chapter 7 of Sindarina's lovely collection _Wort für Wort_.
> 
> Jews all over the world make and love chicken soup, and make endless jokes about its healing powers. The joke in this ficlet is one of the oldest ones, and has no subtextual meanings beneath its absurdity :-)

Your eyes are closed, but your breathing tells me that you’re not asleep. Your hair is sticking out every which way and needs a wash. There are a couple of new lines on your forehead. I lay a hand on it. Still hot.

“Sit up,” I say. “Lunchtime.”

You manage to push yourself up into a sitting position, glance at the bowl I am holding, and huff out a short laugh. “And that is …?”

Buy a chicken. Wring its neck. Clean it inside and out. Stick it into a pot with some water, a couple of onions, carrots and potatoes. Nothing to laugh at. “Shut up and eat.”

You grin and do both. Slowly, every movement is an effort. You have a break every three or four spoonfuls. Influenza, the doctor said. Adding that it can get serious, unless the patient drinks lots of fluids and rests.

“Ain’t too bad,” you say, straight-faced. “I’ve eaten worse.”

“That’s what the doctor ordered. He said his people believe that chicken soup cures everything.”

You make a sceptical face. I remember what the doctor also told me, and what I wanted to do after hearing it. But hell, your gun is safely in its holster, out of your reach, I may as well pass it on. Retribution for all those “fellas you used to know”.

“Let me tell you a story. A short one.”

You nod, and I go ahead. “An old woman had two chickens. The first one got sick. So she made soup out of the second, and the first one got better straight away.”

You blink, then throw your head back and laugh, a genuine, hearty laugh. Your bowl is nearly empty, but I grab it before the sheets and blankets get a taste of soup. You start coughing immediately afterwards.

I hand you a glass of water and stand over you until you get it all down. You stop coughing and lie back, breathing hard.

“Thanks,” you say. “For the soup. _And_ the bedtime story. Speakin of bedtime …” you pause, take a breath, go on, “pity that …”

After two years, I can read you like a book. “Stop right there. I’m sleeping in the kitchen until you’re out and about. Now rest.”

You know that I can read your _other_ thought, _Yes, Nurse_ , or something along these lines, but you’re wise and don’t say it out loud. Your smile warms my back as I leave the room.


End file.
